


Lest We Lose

by Rohen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Post-Hogwarts, maybe more tags when if i write more, who is the real winner
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-09-22 13:19:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9609176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rohen/pseuds/Rohen
Summary: Oliver Wood and Marcus Flint have been entangled in each other since Hogwarts. Well, Oliver has been entangled by Marcus, and when he vanishes at the start of war, Oliver is left trying to untangle himself. And he's trying--he really is--but of course, Flint has to show his sodding face again and ruin Oliver's last bit of control. How do they always end up like this? When did Marcus Flint become such an integral part of who Oliver was? Oliver has no idea how this will end, he doesn't know if he wants it to.





	1. Not the Beginning, Not Quite the Middle, Yet to the End

**Author's Note:**

> The chapters arent necessarily chronological. 
> 
> I'm also working on this when I'm bored or want something else to write, my main story is another fic. ayoooayoo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oliver Wood shudders when Flint grabs him. His nails dig half-moons into Oliver's skin, and he winces. Marcus grunts and shoves him forcefully forward, knocking brooms from their stands. 

 

"Unnecessary," he groans, bracing himself against the wall of the broom shed.

 

Marcus scoffs, pressing himself against Oliver's back. His hands drift to hold his hips. He pulls Oliver towards him, pressing fully against the shape of his arse. Oliver inhales sharply. 

 

"Flint," He says shakily. They're both covered in sweat and dirt and blood, still shaking from the exhaustion of the final Quidditch game. Gryffindor versus Slytherin.

 

Victory for Gryffindor.

 

It was miraculous, exhilarating. The rush of the game still stirs in his belly as they make their way across the pitch. He's all smiles and claps on the backs, hair ruffles and grins, until he spots Marcus Flint. 

 

The Slytherin captain stares at him, silent but fixedly, wolfish. His gray eyes shimmer dangerously as they meet Oliver's, and Oliver feels the anticipation swell in him like a tide. His heart hammers like it did in the game, frenzied and excited and nervous.

 

Flint brings a hand up to yank Oliver's head back, gripping his hair. He traces a light trail against the column of the Gryffindor's neck with his teeth, and Oliver squeezes his eyes shut. Flint's had a fascination with teeth ever since his family had ordered his corrected. Perhaps it is their attempt to make him more alluring, prospect-able. It achieves the opposite effect though, he's more sinister looking now. Cold and derisive, no trace of anything comical. 

 

Oliver tremors. 

 

"Not here," He whispers. 

 

Marcus bites down, earning a gasp and Oliver melts into his chest, languid. 

 

"Why not?" He asks, lips against Oliver's neck. He can taste the salt and sweat of his skin, feels how Oliver's heart is beating faster than he can count. He's hard and heavy in his Quidditch gear, and rubs himself against Oliver absently. There's something primal in his movements, rugged. He's not worried about formalities, he never has been. It's what drew Oliver, albeit a bit guiltily, to him in the first place. He's always Marcus Flint, never anyone else.

 

He doesn't know how to be. 

 

Oliver squeezes his eyes shut, "Really, Flint? Someone could walk in any minute--" 

 

"That's bollocks and you know it," Marcus grunts. Its true, in a way.

 

Most students will be off celebrating or licking their wounded pride. Certainly no Gryffindor will be prodding about, he can only imagine the joyous chaos that is erupting within their tower. Maybe they're wondering where their captain is, about to go looking for him. Marcus's hand snakes forward to palm Oliver through his trousers. His smirk is almost audible. "'Sides, you can't wait." 

 

"Marcus," Oliver gasps, his face heating. He grunts as Flint's fingers work against the outline of his shaft. "You're being a prat." 

 

"What was it like?" Marcus growls, shoving Oliver forward, against the wall. "Winning the cup like that, eh?" 

 

Oliver turns to face him, chest heaving. 

 

"Fucking spectacular," he spits. "Don't tell me your jealous, mate." 

 

"Don't call me _mate_ ," Flint towers over Oliver. He bars Oliver in place, his hands on either side, blocking escape. Oliver matches his glare, furious and enticed all at once. 

 

"Oh, I can suck your cock, but I can't call you mate?" 

 

This is the trend. This is how it starts. It's a song and dance only sensical between the two of them. It is only on the most rare, and usually drunk occurrences that their escapades start with anything but shrillness and sharp words. 

 

Marcus closes the space between them, crowding into Oliver. Their breaths mingle and chests heave together. 

 

"You beat me, Wood. Probably for the last time, and now you're going to go and party with your fellow Gryffindors, but I'm going to fuck you first." 

 

Oliver shivers. Marcus's entire body is taught, like an animal about to pounce. He's instinctively still, hyper aware of their proximity. Of Marcus Flint. Of the heavy erection he feels pressing against him, through their clothes. 

 

He lets his head fall back, breathing shakily. Marcus is drawn to Oliver's neck like honey, licks it and traces the grim off like he doesn't notice. Oliver quakes under him, head swimming. 

 

"I'm going to fuck you," Marcus says against his neck, "And you're going to go up to Gryffindor tower, just like you are right now. _Dirty._ And then you can smile and laugh about your win." 

 

Oliver inhales sharply, "Flint, don't be a sore loser." 

 

" _Sore?_ I'm not, but you will be." He laughs, "And your going to let the captain of the Slytherin team that you just beat fuck your arse until it feels sideways." 

 

Oliver groans as Marcus fumbles with his pants, jerking them down. His prick twitches in the cool air of the broom shed. Marcus stares at it, pink and beaded with pre-cum. 

 

"You're so easy, Wood." He mumbles. Oliver doesn't argue with him, can't find it in himself. He closes his eyes as Marcus's wraps a calloused hang around him, teasing. He bites the inside of his cheek, refusing to buckle. 

 

"Does your team know that their captain is a fairy?" Marcus murmurs. "That he's on his knees for the _disgusting_ Slytherin team's captain? That he begs 'im all the time to stuff him?" 

 

"What would your team do?" Marcus whispers, jerking Oliver into his hand. The Gryffindor pants against Marcus, holding onto his robes for balance. His hips jerk forward. "If they saw you like this?" 

 

Oliver groans, "Shut up, Flint. Shut up." 

 

"Fine."  Marcus's release on his manhood is swift, but Oliver has no time to linger on it. He's spun around haphazardly, clumsy with his pants around his ankles. Marcus mumbles an incantation under his breath, muffled by the sound of his own disrobing. A cold, wet sensation prods against Oliver's entrance. He cringes.

 

"Breathe," Marcus says, though he's breathless. He fingers Oliver up to his knuckles, lubrication easing the intrusion. Oliver finds it hilarious, the things Marcus can do when he finds the motivation, though he doesn't have the extra breath to laugh. A lube spell. 

 

Bloody brilliant. Of course, Marcus Flint would want to learn it. 

 

"Easy, Wood," Marcus scolds, though there's nothing stony about it. "You're too tight right now." 

 

Oliver exhales slowly, shuffling his legs further apart. He can tell from the way Marcus's finger thrust into him, now faster, that the Slytherin finds the action appealing. He chokes on a moan, stifling it by biting down on his fist. 

 

"You're pathetic right now, Wood." Marcus breathes. He sounds like he's just run the entire pitch. Oliver grimaces, angry and aroused and excited. He shuffles his legs further apart. 

 

"Marcus," He pants, looking over his shoulder. "C'mon." 

 

Marcus looks at him for a beat. His eye color is almost completely swallowed by his blown-up irises, clouded with want. His hair is mussed, from sweat and wind, and he has a hunger in him Oliver rarely has the chance to see. Marcus licks his lips, they're chapped, Oliver notes, and nods. The sensation of his fingers leaving Marcus is uncomfortable, but he doesn't wince. 

 

They look at each other as Marcus presses his member against Oliver's entrance, prodding it slowly. Oliver nods and closes his eyes, turning towards the wall again.

 

It's okay, sometimes, to see each other's openness.

 

But not now, Oliver doesn't want Marcus to see his face as he's fucked open, doesn't want the obvious greed he has for the Slytherin to be on display, can't face it. He squeezes his eyes shut as Marcus presses forward, his thickness stretching much further than his fingers had. 

 

"Shit," Flint pauses, balancing himself on Oliver's hips. He rests his forehead against Oliver's shoulder, hair tickling the side of the shorter boys cheek. He's hot, unbearably hot. His legs are shaking. 

 

"Flint," He says softly, pushing himself backwards, onto the Slytherin's waiting cock. Marcus squeezes his hands hard enough to leave bruises and bites into his shoulder. 

 

"I'm going to fuck you," He breathes, "and then you can go celebrate, cum-filled and used, with the rest of them." 

 

Oliver nods. He doesn't linger upon the poisonous, jealous way Marcus says _them_.

 

His heart gallops across his ribs and he tries to open himself by willpower alone to Flint.

 

This is the last game of his seventh year. He _should_ have told the Slytherin to fuck off, and gone back with his team to enjoy the rest of the night. But he can't, he never could. Not since they started this dance, just a few months before. 

 

It's embarrassing, if he's honest, how earnestly he wants the Slytherin like this. He's been half-hard since the end of his game, awake and shaken with the knowledge of what Marcus would do to him now. 

 

Marcus leans back and impales himself fully into Oliver, reveling in the way the Gryffindor cries out. He squirms in pain at the sudden intrusion, panting with his head dropped down. His brown hair is almost black with sweat, sticking against his neck. Marcus draws back and snaps his hips forward, again and again, setting the momentum deep and hard. 

 

He can feel how Oliver's body tenses and relaxes with each thrust, how his body slowly opens to him, the pain, the pleasure. 

 

He runs his hands up and down the Keeper's back, dragging his nails against the fabric. Oliver's gasps, guttural and half muffled by the fist he's biting. Marcus wonders briefly what it would be like to kiss him now, have his face in view while he's fucking Oliver, and though his cock pulses with the idea he dismisses it quickly. 

 

He grabs a hold of Oliver's hair with one hand, yanking his head back and earning a string of curses from the Gryffindor. He smiles, despite himself. 

 

"Touch yourself, go on." He urges, fucking steadily into Oliver now, working towards his own orgasm. The sound of their movements fill the shed, coupled with their heavy breathing. "I know you want to." 

 

Oliver doesn't hesitate, he wraps a hand around himself and jerks off in sync to Marcus's hips. His lungs labor as he builds himself up, clenching around Flint. The Slytherin grunts softly, his pace quickening. He rests his forehead against Oliver's shoulder, burrowed into the crook of his neck. 

 

Oliver gasps as his balls tighten, and soon his spilling over his hand. His moans echo back at him in the emptiness of their space. Too real, too loud, he thinks in a haze.

 

"You're so easy," Marcus huffs, and his movements become jerky. His hands hold vice grips on Oliver's hips, pounding as deep as he can reach, and then he's still. They pant together for a moment, gathering themselves. Oliver's hand feels awful, covered in his own mess. 

 

He reaches for his wand, only to be stopped by Marcus. He turns to look at him. Marcus shakes his head, pulling his wand out, and points his wand at Oliver's hand. 

 

" _Scourgify_." 

 

Oliver raises his hand up and inspects it, impressed. 

 

"Huh." He says, "Y'know, I dunno why you need tutoring." 

 

"Don't get cheeky," Marcus warns, pulling himself out of Oliver. The sensation makes them both shudder. Marcus pulls his pants up quickly.

 

"'M not, Marcus." Oliver says, following suit more slowly. Marcus pauses. 

 

"Don't," The Slytherin says, "Whatever it is you're starting to feel for me, don't." 

 

Oliver can't hide his wounded expression, but covers it easily enough anger. Humiliation is just the same, he knows. He scoffs, glaring at Marcus. 

 

"You're such a git," He growls, buckling his pants up. He feels sticky and dirty and _hot,_ and he wants to leave this forsaken shed and celebrate with people who don't make him want to beat his brains (and his cock) into a pulp. "Don't get so full of yourself." 

 

Marcus looks at him for a moment, unmoving, before rolling his eyes. 

 

"Don't get your knickers in a twist." 

 

"Fuck off."

 

Oliver shoves past him, purposefully knocking his shoulder into Flint's. Marcus is quick, though, and grabs his wrist. He swings Oliver around easily, and slams him back into the wall, face contoured in anger and something else. 

 

"Wood," He takes a breath, then leans forward. They never kiss. Never. Except once, both drunk, both sloppy and hysterical at best. But Marcus presses his lips against Wood's with purpose, curiously probes his tongue against his bottom lip. Oliver complies, he can't help it. He's wondered for so long about what this would be like.

 

They kiss slow, tongues sliding against teeth and gum, until he's so drunk on it he can't breathe. Marcus pull away, his face deceptively red. Oliver has never had more trouble thinking. He couldn't tell you the name of the top Quidditch team. He stares at Marcus, lips plump and raw. 

 

"Go celebrate," Marcus says gruffly. He steps back before Marcus can do anything, and disappears out of the shed. 

 

Oliver can't move. He doesn't trust his legs. 

 

He's earned this victory. He fought hard, for three years, to make Gryffindor win the cup. It's everything he's dreamed and better. He wonders if he can figure Marcus Flint out the same way, with the same crazed determination. He stumbles out of the shed after a few moments, and the wind hits his face with a jolt. 

 

Marcus leaves him to celebrate, but on top of being elated, he's confused. And angry. And aroused. 

 

All of the things Marcus Flint has always made him feel. He brings it out of him like sucking the venom from a wound, and Oliver thinks he'd die without it. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. We have to go backwards to go forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i didnt want to but... these chapters will probably start getting thiq. i like brusque but... ... i like detail too much to devote entire to it.

 

 

“Do you pray, Oliver?” Cho asks. She sips her drink slowly, and Oliver looks at her in surprise. She doesn’t look up at him, rather, takes her time drinking. Only when she finishes her fill does she met his gaze, eyes warm. They always are.

“No, ‘course not,” He says, taken aback. “Who would I pray to?”

Cho shrugs, “Hm, not sure. My mum prays to God, y’know, but I don’t think there are rules for these things.”

Oliver shakes his head. The ice in his untouched drink clink together, glass dewed with sweat. He decides to take a sip, finally, and is disgruntled to find that most of the ice has melted.  They’re sitting together at the bar, two lost and confused young people, both angry and sad at the world.

It’s a place not too far off from Hogsmeade, but it’s new, just reaching its first birthday. It brings in some of the same type, those like Cho and Oliver, who have yet to move on past the war. Young, bewildered Wizards and Witches. People with pasts that haunt them, trudging along after them where ever they go.

 Still, it attracts even more of those who are young and ravenous, eager to suck down life, breathless and giddy. They come in throngs of pink-cheeked bundles and joyous laughter, the exact opposite of Oliver. He tries to avoid them, he’s too much of a spectacle lately. And really, it’s the one place they have where he can be—if not normal—himself, lonely and brooding.

Besides, Cho is proven good company.

They knew each other in Hogwarts, of course. She was a fine Seeker, and Oliver had always respected her for it. But they weren’t friends then—and they weren’t friends during the war, either. They fought together in the Battle of Hogwarts, but who didn’t? Who wasn’t there, fighting for their lost loves— and their loves yet to be lost?

They didn’t cross paths until the construction and opening of the Rusty Goblet, too long of a walk from Hogsmeade to be a hub for students or common faces, too new to be anything but hole-in-the-wall. Cho came searching, for what, she didn’t know. She had her own demons to slink away from. Being chased, instead of doing the chasing.

Oliver just wanted a break. From fans. From people he knew, even the people he’s met through Quidditch.

From people he desperately wanted to see. From people he couldn’t handle seeing. How can one be trying to avoid someone, while desperately searching for them at the same time?

It’s all the same, anyway.

“God is for Muggles,” He says, smacking his lips together. It tastes awful. He takes another sip.

“I’ll have you know,” Cho says, squinting. “My _dad_ is the Muggle. My mum’s a Witch.”

“Is she?” Oliver say’s absently. “That’s interesting, I think.”

“Well, we have magic, haven’t we? What’s another step to us? I think it’s much more ridiculous---Muggles believing.”

“You’ve thought about this a lot.”

“No,” Cho says, emptying her glass in a dutiful swig. “How’s Puddlemere?”

Oliver is enticed, of course he is, by the bait. Cho knows he will be. He smiles at her. There’s something miraculous about that girl. She’s wonderful at avoiding the problem. She’s a good Seeker like that, give her something to chase, and she’ll do it. Otherwise, she’s always running.

Running, chasing, running, chasing.

“Brutal,” He says, his face is stretched wide in happiness. “Practice is killing me, I swear! And the lads at school used to whine on and on about how much I made them practice. Five times a week—oh, what a sodding breeze that was, I don’t think I’ll ever sit the same again.” 

“I’m gonna make it out of reserves you know. By next season, for sure.” He empties his glass, doesn’t even cringe at how watered down it is. Cho beams at him.

“Excellent,” She says, and means it. Oliver watches her slip away with her thoughts in the silence the follows. He can tell she’s thinking about Quidditch and Hogwarts, about two Seekers who left her in shambles. She balks from her own mind before he can distract her. “Well, must be wonderful for pulling arse.”

“Ah,” Oliver says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Where do you learn to talk that? You’re a girl.”

Cho bristles, and Oliver knows she will. They both know how to entice each other, forever a game of hide-and-seek. It’s why they’re so close. One day, it will have to change. One day they’ll have to be good friends and love each other like good friends should, and crack each other open and prod the things they find. Dark, unseemly things. But for now, they don’t have to. They can keep running and chasing, playing tag between their personal ruins.

“And, what’s that got to do with it?” Cho asks, crossing her arms. Her glossed lips pout angrily, “I hang around with your lot and they aren’t the most mannered, are they?”

“Well, they’re a bunch of blokes,” Oliver says, smirking. He can’t help it. He brings the empty glass to his lips in an effort to hide his smile, sucking on the rest of the ice.

Cho scoffs, “You have girls on your team, too, Wood.”

Oliver delights in how easily Cho Chang finds her injustice. “Quidditch girls don’t count—“

“Oh, stop laughing, you prick!” Cho laughs and smacks Oliver’s arm, shaking her head.

They settle into comfortable silence. Cho orders another drink and offers Oliver one, who gratefully accepts. There’s a fair amount of people here tonight, and it’s getting more traffic now that Quidditch season has started. The noise of the pub bounces around and swallows Oliver. He can grin and sip his drink and listen to horrible Wizard music and pretend he’s perfectly content. He doesn’t even mind, usually, when the random witch comes bouncing up asking for an autograph. Or a bloke grins at him and thumps his back. It’s not too shabby, not at all, no one would think so. It’s good to be content.

Content with being reserve, content with his social life, content with himself.

It always shatters though, always.

Because he can’t help himself.

Marcus Flint is the poison long filled in his veins, he can’t be content.

At every game Oliver’s pangs of want, of anger and sorrow, seize him unbearably by the throat. He blames Flint that he’s a reserve player on the team he’s always dreamed of playing for. He blames Marcus Flint for a lot of things, more than he can count.

He can’t touch anyone without thinking of Marcus. He can’t even rub one out without those cool, gray eyes piercing into him—the memory of teeth and fingers grazing his skin. The way Marcus burned him, branded himself into Oliver’s skin, so now that any other touch seems cold and wrong.

He doesn’t laugh or get as angry as he used to, and he wonders when those two emotions become so intertwined. And when Marcus flint became the catalyst for them.

There’s so many things ruined for him, touched by the absence of Marcus Flint.

And worse, he doesn’t play Quidditch like he used to.

The mechanics are there—he’s good at flying. Oliver Wood could fly even if he couldn’t walk, that’s not the problem. But there isn’t anything else to it—he’s like a walking diagram. A perfectionist to the core, the genius without imagination. And so he sits in reserves, waiting for his inspiration to strike, the drive that sets apart those who a Great and those who will always wish to be.

Pathetic, really, and he blames Marcus Flint. How could he not?

He nurses his firewhiskey, lets the burn of it down his throat wash away the anger that had begun to seep up. Cho looks at him for a moment, and he doesn’t meet her eye.

“How’re you feeling?” She asks.

The tone is one he knows, the meaning lurks there. Cho is watching him break. She’s begin pushed to prod him open, but he’s not ready yet. Not yet.

“Dandy,” He says, smiling.

“Any news from Flint?” She asks, sipping her drink.

Oliver can’t help it—he chokes and sputters on his drink, smacking the top of the bar.

“Are you trying to kill me?” He wheezes, “What’re you askin’ question like that for?”

Cho places her drink down gently, pushing a lock of smooth black hair behind her ear. She looks at Oliver seriously, “You’re not in a good way, Oliver. I can tell it’s effecting you more lately.”

“It’s just the stress of the season starting up,” Oliver says, furrowing his brows. “And don’t go saying I’m the one being mopey—you’re just as sad as I am lately. How about that, huh?”

Cho crosses her arms, flaring her nostrils. “Don’t go there. You know that I’m dealing with it, or that I’m trying to. It’s just—“ she waves her hands up, exasperated, “Impossible around here. Everything that happened is constantly thrown in my face. But you—“

She bites her lips, looking away. “You don’t have to live like he’s dead, Olly. You’re mourning. I know what that’s like.”

Oliver runs a hand through his hair, squeezing his eyes shut. He _knows_ Cho knows what loss is like, of course he does. And maybe he hasn’t placed that feeling to himself yet—the feeling that part of his life is gone forever, decaying in mockery right under his nose. He can’t let go, he’s tried. Cho knows what that’s like, Cho has known that much since she was just a girl.

Oliver sniffs, pushing the palms of his hands against his eyes until he sees stars.

“I wish he was dead,” He whispers, and isn’t surprised when Cho shoves him, hard, out of his stool. He stumbles but doesn’t fall, looking at her with wide, red eyes. She’s got her wand out, pointing it at his chest with a cold expression on her face. The pub is quiet, no one dares move.

“Easy there,” The bartender coos, places his glasses down.

“Oh, I’m not going to kill the sodding idiot,” Cho snaps, sitting back down. Oliver stares at her, bewildered and frozen to his spot. He didn’t expect to see such cold anger on her face, it’s more shocking than the wand she pointed at him. The bartender moves on easily enough, only sparing Oliver a curious glance. He knows them, they’re regulars lately.

“I’m sorry, Cho,” He says after a moment. The noises of people resuming their own activities trickles back, hesitantly at first. “I’m an idiot. I don’t think sometimes.”  He means it, he’s never wanted to hurt Cho, for all the stupid things he’s done.

“I know,” Cho sniffs, nursing her drink. She glares at him, though the animosity previously there seems replaced with something else. Jealousy, perhaps. “It hurts, missing them. It really hurts, doesn’t it?”

Oliver nods, taking his seat. Their shoulders touch in familiar comfort, and they’re okay. They have to be.

 

 

 

 

When Oliver stumbles into his flat later that night he’s too drunk to shower, or even rip his clothes off before plopping into bed. He only spares the energy to kick his shoes off, laying atop his blankets in splayed out defeat. He groans quietly, muffled by his pillow, as nausea twists his stomach.

“Marcus,” He breathes, choking. “You bastard--you bastard.”

He squeezes his eyes shut but the tears slip past, undeterred. “Why’d you leave like that, you rotten bloody bastard. Git. Fucker. Cunt. I—“

His body shudders with the force of a sob. It rips out of him before he can stop, and he’s holding his pillow and sobbing into it.

“I ‘ate you,” He mumbles thickly, “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”

And he falls asleep with tear stains on his cheeks, and he wants to throw up from the pain of it, because he means precisely the opposite.

 

 

Oliver wakes up the next morning, head pounding, to the sound of an owl pecking his window incessantly. It's huge, with black feathers and molten amber eyes. A green scroll is attached to its leg. He opens the panes blearily, squinting at the bird. It clambers inside loftily.

“What in.. Merlin’s name,” He yawns, untying the parchment. The bird watches him, poised, unblinking, as he fumbles to open it.

“What—“ Oliver gasps as his knees buckle beneath him, and he hits the ground with a thud.

 

The letter flutters down beside him, the large, looping signature of Marcus Flint unignorably huge.

 

 

                                                            _“Im Back.”_

 

 


	3. Chapter ? - Just a Conversation

Sunday:

Oliver lays himself in the grass, panting. His broom is next to him, slick from the sweat of his body. They've been flying for hours.

"Good weather for flying," He pants.

Marcus is next to him, his breathing erratic as well. He wipes sweat from his forehead.

"Hot as a witches tit," he responds crassly, grunting as he inspects his broom thistles for debris.

"Bollocks. Perfect, no clouds."

"Coverage is good for Quidditch. You cans get up behind 'em easily enough, keep 'em unawares."

"Not much fun in being a sneak, 'sides, I don't need to skirt around to win."

"I'm not saying you need to sneak to win, it's clever."

"Clever sneaking about? Whose the captain now, you or Malfoy? How very Slytherin."

"Ha-ha."

"Don't get pissy, I'm joking. Yanking your chain."

"Yeah, whatever, Wood. Anyway, I don't care how good you think you are, there's no way you'll play for a professional team straight after Hogwarts. They scout for ages."

"I will."

Marcus snorts, "How do you know? How very Gryffindor. You think you're so good."

Oliver doesn't take the bait. "I've been studying techniques and practicing alone, and with my team, constantly. When I try out, I'll get it. I know it. It's my sodding life, what else would I do?"

Crickets begin to chirp as the sky's oranges and pinks darken.

"What're you doing after Hogwarts?" Oliver asks quietly.

"Dunno."

"Surely you've got an idea."

"None."

"You're a prat. And a shit liar."

"You're a nosey git."

"Clever."

"Why'd you care? You'll be gone, playing for Puddlemere or some other shart team."

"You're thick, mate--I'll call you mate if I want, shut up--I'm just.."

"Don't act like we've got something after Hogwarts. Especially because of-- well, you know. Everything that's happening."

"I wont! I don't! And sure, gonna join up with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, then? Is that why you can't talk about it?"

Marcus moves too quickly for Oliver to stop him. He's on top of him, menacing and tense. They never use their wands to fight.

"I'll knock your teeth out."

"Gitoff."

"Wood," his voice shakes with anger, "Watch your fucking mouth about that, mate."

"GITOFF!"

"Fine, I'm off. There--let's talk about where I'm gonna go, then. Since we're gossiping like a bunch of witches. Think I'll head over to the ol' Dark Arts club, where us Slytherins and Purebloods plan on the evilest and darkest ways to kill people. Or--no, I'm the right type of bloke for a Death Eater, you think? Slap some Dark Marks on my arm, learns some Unforgivables and go around shooting my wand at everything that moves. Settle down with a nice Dark Lord supporting wife, shit out some trolly brats, continue with the Pure Blood ways. Fancy watching some Quidditch every now and then--maybe I'll see you play. Bring along me family."

"Stop being a dick, Flint. Sorry for asking."

"No, you're not. You're doing your Gryffindor duty. Keeping tabs on me, eh? Wanna make sure your not fucking the next Death Eater? Don't want everyone to know you sucked my cock as much as you could when we were little students, prancing around Hogwarts?"

"Stop! Enough. It was just a sodding question. Blimey."

"No, really Wood. What about you and the famous Harry Potter? Gonna team up with him, help him and his goodie friends with their adventures? Maybe you'll try to get him to join Puddlemere with you to--"

"Marcus," Oliver snaps, eyes wide. "For fuckssake, I just wanted to know if you'd write."

"What?"

"I just wanted to know if you'd still--- If we-- If you'd send me an owl every now and then."

"What?"

"If you'd send me owls, you stupid prick!"

"Oh."

The sun dips below the ground, orange melts the sky. It's quiet, save for the breeze and chirping. Oliver yanks grass out of the ground absently, making a pike.

"I didn't mean to hit a fucking nerve, for Merlin's sake."

"You didn't."

"Really? Really? You kind of went hysterical, Flint."

"Shut up."

"Let's just shut up and enjoy the fucking sunset before we have to head back and pretend we hate each other. We'll take our NEWTs, an' fuck off into the world forever."

They sit in silence.

"I'm not actually gonna be a Death Eater."

"I know."

"Eh? Sure?"

"Dunno."

"You just said you did."

"I'll only know if you send me owls, eh?"

Marcus lays down on the grass. Oliver follows suit. They stare up at the darkening sky. It's nice, quiet. There's no one around except them.

Their fingers brush.

"Guess so."

"Just don't be."

"Easier said, for your lot."

"Flint, I'm serious. Write to me, every now and then--not like we're smitten, but--"

"You're needy, you know." Marcus says softly. Somewhere in between their hands have become clasped. Oliver turns to look at him, his eyes are open and searching, wondering. Marcus looks at him from the corner of his eye.

"'M not." Oliver turns away, closing his eyes. He closes his eyes a lot lately, like he's meditating on something.

"I'll write, if I can."

"If you can?"

"Might be busy."

"Busy? Doing what?"

"Oh, sod off already. You know I couldn't tell you--even if I knew. I can't now. I just--"

"Alright, alright. I know."

"What're you so twisted up for anyway? You never care if I write over holiday."

"'Course I'm not, it's just holiday."

"Just holiday. Hm."

"Shut up, you just want me to say it. I've got you figured out too, Flint."

"Say what?"

"I don't write over holiday," Oliver says, climbing on top of Marcus slowly. They hardly notice their sticking skin, damp with sweat. "Because I know I'll see you after."

 


	4. Marcus Flint isn't that smart, but he's not that stupid.

"Oliver," Marcus says his name stiffly, like it's still new and has yet to be worn-in. Oliver looks up from his book, eyebrows lifted in expectancy and surprise. They look at each other for a beat, Oliver licks his lips.

"Yes?" He prompts, marking his page and closing the book he was studying so diligently. It's educational, sort of-- the different ways in which flying is effected by the sort of broom one uses. Not the sort he needs to be reading, but Oliver doesn't care much for his NEWTs, his focus is resolutely situated on Quidditch. That's his future-- bollocks to the ministry or any other glorified desk job. He doesn't need it-- he can fly, fly like no one can. Sure, other people are good, like he is, maybe better, but he knows no one can feel anything close to what he feels when he's on a broom.

He's charmed it to look like a copy of his History of Magic text, that ought to prove he's an able wizard. Able as the next student, anyway.

"Come here," Marcus says. Oliver furrows his brows but scoots his chair closer. Marcus pulls him out of it slowly, pulls Oliver by his arm on top of him, so that Oliver is facing him, straddling his lap. He feels the muscle of Marcus's thighs beneath him and a shock courses up his back. Flint's body does brutal things to him.

Oliver's face is red, he shifts and looks as if he doesn't know what to say or where to put his hands. Marcus doesn't notice or doesn't care. He grabs the Gryffindor by the back of his neck and brings their mouths together. He sucks on Oliver's lip, drinking him in. Oliver lets his hands rest on Flint's shoulder, his breath comes in sharper bursts, filling the quiet room. His lashes flutter, arousal like a sharp blow to his gut.

"I can't stop it," Flint mumbles,and Oliver is going to ask what in the bloody hell the dark-haired boy is talking about, but Marcus attaches himself to his neck by the teeth and his thoughts dribble out of his ears. Marcus's fingers drag up and down his chest and through his hair, squeeze his thighs, his arse, his hips. His hands roam like they're sculpting Oliver out of clay, mesmerizing each groove of his body, pushing them together. It's tender, gentle, something Marcus's entire being contrasts. He isn't always domineering, no, but now his fingers feel like they're shatter Oliver's skin if he touches too hard.

It makes his heart constrict tightly. He's confused, even a little afraid, but he's wanton in Marcus's lap, unraveled by his attention.

Oliver's head lulls back and he groans softly, closing his eyes. Marcus lifts him by his arms, rising from the chair with him. Oliver furrows his brows, quizzical, but Marcus lays him across the table where they've spread quills and parchment and Quidditch books--game plans that Oliver is pouring himself into. Oliver stares up at him.

Marcus's gray eyes are clear and focused and pierce him like they always do, straight through, pinning him in place. He watches him like an animal watches before it must decide whether to run, heart trilling excitedly in his chest.

Marcus looks him up and down, slowly, languidly, tilting his head, like he's got all the time in the world.

"What're you doing, Flint?" Oliver mumbles, blushing.

"You're dumb," Marcus responds softly, "I'm looking."

"What for?" Oliver asks, closing his eyes. He's embarrassed by the other's expression. Marcus never seems embarrassed, unless he's angry. Usually if he's embarrassed he's angry. Oliver never sees him bashful--not like he is--when they touch. It probably isn't possible, and it sure as hell isn't fair.

"For my health," Marcus says sarcastically, though there's no true bite. He sniffs, as if looking at a particularly confusing piece of art. Oliver sighs when he feels his shirt being unbuttoned, relieved. He peeks his eyes open, watching Marcus.

"I have to," Flint says, almost to himself. His movements are jerkier than usual, Oliver watches him fumble over the buttons of his shirt.

"Have to?" He repeats sluggishly.

"Hm." Marcus pulls his red and gold tie of easily, discards it to the floor.

The Slytherin brings his lips to place chaste, buttery kisses against Oliver's collar bones. He nips them, licks them, like he has no intention of ever stopping. Oliver trembles, bringing a hand to card through his thick black hair. Marcus doesn't stop, he trails down to Oliver's pectorals, kissing his sternum and working his way to each nipple. He sucks lightly, running the pert pink bead between his teeth. Oliver grips tightens unconsciously, like he's trying to keep himself still.

"NEWTs are over," Marcus mumbles against his chest. He has his arms wrapped around Oliver's back, holding them together. Oliver blinks blearily, as if in a dream.

"Yeah," He breathes.

Flint works himself down, feathering kisses, licks, nips, each earn a different array of reactions from Wood. He bites his lip to keep from crying out when Marcus bites his hips--the bastard knows that's a sensitive spot for him--spreading his thighs open.

Oliver is muscular too, from Quidditch, though he's leaner and less wide. He's not brawny--he's athletic in the way one becomes from running and flying, not from purposeful lifting. Marcus isn't as serious about Quidditch, though. He's more serious about gaining muscle, he's concerned about coming off as a brute--which for him, is a compliment. It allows him to manhandle and maneuver Oliver easily, though Oliver bends to him now without struggle.

He massages into Oliver's thighs, he knows they're always fraught with tension--if not sore, as he sucks on the space between his bollocks and leg. Oliver whines, desperately, feral. His cock drips pre-cum lazily onto his navel, pulsing.

"Marcus?" He gasps, looking wild. His brown hair is ruffled around his face, beautifully flushed. The strands of hair are beginning to stick to his forehead as they dampen with sweat. Marcus is struck by him sometimes--struck by how fit he is, how his feature's come alive when you see them exposed, how his already full lips darken and get thicker as he gnaws on them in arousal. Oliver is downright gorgeous to behold, like a god, especially when he's flying and his expression is wild.

Marcus's cock twitches in his pants.

He grabs Oliver in his hand and lowers himself onto the head, sucking with enough pressure to make Oliver's body tighten like a bowstring. He licks around the tip, dragging pleas and cries and promises from the Gryffindor, torturing his sensitivity. His cups his balls and lowers himself, further, further, until he's reached as far as he can, and Oliver's cries are torn raggedly from his throat as he bobs on his length. He's not as good as Oliver when it comes to sucking, but he's more focused. He squeezes Oliver's sack too hard and earns a sharp cry of pain, mingling flirtatiously with wrought pleasure, and lifts off his cock with a crass slurping sound.

Oliver huffs, his whole body wracked with shudders, and he stares up at Marcus with something like awe and--

Marcus opens his thighs further, spreading Oliver open. Oliver's face is bright red, splotching down to his chest. He's embarrassed at how exposed he is and simultaneously loves it, craves it, is addicted to the way Marcus displays him like he's never heard about being coy in anything.

Marcus digs into his pocket with one hand, points it at Oliver's entrance and mutters and incantation that Oliver feels rather than hears.

"Oliver," Marcus says, and Oliver knows he will never forget the way his heart seems to stop in his chest.

"Marcus," he breathes, blinking. It's new. It's new to be like this, spliced open and raw, looking at each other as Marcus prods himself against Oliver's hole. He watches every flit of emotion on the Slytherin's face, desperate to see it, to remember it. Marcus is beautiful too, but it's dangerous and rough around the edges.

There's something frantic about them both, words unspoken that spur them hard in the side.

"Oliver," Marcus watches Oliver's mouth slack open, is pulled in by the action and fills it with his tongue. They kiss sloppily, slick and wet and crude.

Oliver throws his head back as Marcus presses himself inside, past the ring of muscle, eased by the lube summoned there. Its so slow, so tender, Oliver hates it and it's everything he's ever needed and nothing he could ever imagine. He hates the way Marcus can slide into him and make him loose himself, because he knows that he'll never feel that with anyone else. He arches himself off the table, sucking in a breath as Marcus angles himself upwards to meet him.

Marcus grunts softly, running his hands over Oliver's chest, tweaking his nipples. Oliver is like a pool of honey under him, warm and liquid and golden. He nods his head in encouragement as Marcus slides himself in and out faster, angling, searching for Oliver's prostate.

When he hits it Oliver cries out ecstatically, jerking his hips in an effort to impale himself more onto Marcus. The other boy huffs, holding Oliver's waist, and drills into him over and over. They are reduced to frenzied gasps and noises.

Oliver reaches down to stroke himself, his bollocks are tight and dark against him. He's close--so close, and all he needs is the lightest of touches before his cock is pulsing, covering his stomach in warm semen. Marcus groans at the sight, losing himself to thrusting powerfully into Oliver's tightness. The heat and velvet of muscle bring him over the edge, and he comes with his forehead bowed against Marcus, wracked with pleasure and gulping deeply.

Oliver lets Marcus lay on top of him, sluggishly running his fingers through the dark hair. He closes his eyes and can feel Marcus breathing on top of him, feel their hearts beating together. They have never said they love one another, but it is in these moments, with their limbs tangled and their bodies pulsing as one, they don't need to. They can just lay together in silence, without thoughts.

Marcus stirs after a moment and pulls himself out. The feeling is never pleasant, and Oliver shivers from the cold wetness he feels between his legs. Marcus casts a quick cleaning spell and helps lift Oliver into a sitting position. Oliver's wand is in his pant pockets, which is somewhere on the ground, or he would have cast a cleaning spell first. It's nice though, when Marcus does it. He can feel the boys magic envelope him, it makes his hair stand on end.

"Thanks," he murmurs. Marcus nods, handing him his pants. They re-clothe themselves in peaceful silence.

"Damn!" Oliver groans suddenly. Marcus looks at him. "I crumpled up my-- my plays, damn, lets see if I can't straighten them out again. I'll be so pissed if I ruined them--"

"Wait, put your wand down," Marcus says, grabbing his wrist. "I need.. to say something. And I don't want to be hexed."

Oliver feels a painful twist in his stomach.

"What?" He says, sounding sharp and nervous.

"I didn't pass."

"Beg your pardon?" Oliver asks, furrowing his brows.

"I didn't pass my NEWTs," Marcus says, frowning.

"Why not?" Oliver drops his arm limply to his side. The NEWTs were difficult, sure, but not at all impossible. Only truly idiotic people would have trouble passing, perhaps Crabbe and Goyle would find it exceedingly difficult. But Marcus Flint, though he's not an intellect, or really into studying, like some students (or student, see: Hermoine Granger) he has a good grasp on magic. Oliver doesn't understand. He stares at Marcus frowning.

"Couldn't."

Oliver blinks, "What?"

Marcus shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets. He doesn't look ashamed or awkward, like anyone else would in this situation. In fact, he looks resolutely blank, as if he's thinking about what he'll eat for dinner. Oliver gapes angrily at him.

"That doesn't make sense," Oliver says, his temper rising, "You're not a complete moron. You should have been able to pass with no problem. What do you mean 'couldn't', you--"

"Listen," Marcus says, sitting down. "I just wanted to tell you, I don't need a lecture, my parent's have got that covered. So sorry I didn't meet your standards, but I have more important things than to study. I don't plan on being Minister of Magic."

Oliver really does think about hexing him. He slams his hand on the table, "So what then? You're gonna just sit at Hogwarts for another year?"

"Guess so," Marcus says idly, not at all stirred by Oliver's anger. "Calm down."

"Calm down!" Oliver repeats, and paces around the room. He wrings his hands and his mind tumbles over thoughts that fly into his head.

Marcus Flint was supposed to leave Hogwarts, and now he isn't. And Oliver is. He's leaving, he's going to try out for his favorite team, and he's going to travel. And he thought Marcus would--if not join him, he could never say he'd do that--at least be able to see him sometimes. At first it was just an idle dream, but lately Oliver felt certain that Marcus wasn't just shagging him to have someone to shag. In fact, though they've never expressed it verbally, he knew that their shagging and time together was the product of being in a relationship--no matter how fucked it sometimes was. They couldn’t pretend to be casual and horny anymore. Oliver chews on his bottom lip.

Okay, so Marcus isn’t leaving Hogwarts—which doesn’t make sense, no matter how Oliver tries to wrap his head around it. By all accounts he should be, he’s not daft, and he must have studied more than Oliver, who has thrown himself fully into practicing Quidditch whenever possible. He’s not leaving, which means Oliver won’t be able to see him, unless they meet in Hogsmeade.

And how possible will that be once he’s joined a professional team? Not for fame, but for time. He’ll have no time, not to come all the way back and sit in the Leaky Cauldron, hoping that Marcus isn’t barred from going. No one knows what the next year will bring—not with the surging incoming of Darkness.

Oliver stops pacing and squares his shoulders, “I don’t know why you didn’t pass, it doesn’t make sense.”

“I’m not brainy, you know that.”

“Oh, save it!” Oliver snaps, reeling. “That’s it then? You’re gonna sit rotting in this place, and—and—we’ll—“

Marcus is quiet, calm. For once. He watches Oliver with an expression impossible to read. He seems hurt, too, but set. “It can’t be helped. I thought I’d tell you.”

“I’d have figured it out eventually when, I don’t know, I was never able to see you again.”

Marcus rolls his eyes, but smiles. “You’re such a girl, Wood.”

Oliver bristles, “It’s not about being a girl about, you stupid Slytherin punk! I swear—you make me want to—ergh!”

He jumps, not expecting Marcus’s warm calloused hands to be suddenly stroking his cheeks. He stills, the fight in him momentarily too shocked to continue raving through his body. Marcus’s thumbs brush against his cheeks slowly, tracing the pink there. He sighs in frustration and pain and leans into the touch, squeezing his eyes shut. Marcus is never like this, never this gentle, not unless he reeks of firewhiskey.

“It’s not the end,” Marcus murmurs, pressing his lips to Oliver’s temple.

Oliver wants to believe him—he does, but then why, why, why does it feel like Marcus is mourning? It's like their own private funeral. Oliver presses himself against the taller boy, missing the feel of his heartbeat. He tries to remember every inch of Marcus. He concentrates on how gentle they feel now, two people standing in the wake of a tide that’s pulling out. It will crash back in, but right now, right now, they don’t have to worry about it.

Right now Oliver tries to ignore the sadness that is lurking outside of Marcus’s arms.


	5. Suggestion: Keep Going

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: consensual hypnosis, feelings

Oliver hadn't wanted to seek any sort of 'outside' help, especially at the height of his agitation, and tried to bury himself further and further into the grunt force of practice and all things Quiddich, and had begun drinking more than recreationally when the weekend came round. That's when Cho decided enough was enough, cornered him, and referred him (except a referral is usually not a threat, wand pointing at his nose, and usually more of a suggestion), to a family doctor she had been sporadically seeing since childhood. 

 

Of course, Oliver will eventually tell her that it’s not ethical to force someone into seeing a healer of any sort, but he doesn't think the appropriate time is anytime Cho has her wand out. So he bites it back, and to be honest, it doesn't do him any harm to humor her. He doesn't have practice until later today--and he should really stop sleeping so late, anyhow. 

So he's up, he's here; in some strange muggle office Cho had written down for him, dressed in a nice sweater and slacks she had picked out for him, and only bouncing his leg casually instead of hysterically. 

The receptionist peeks over her glasses at him kindly, "Dr. Howards will be with you shortly, love." 

Oliver nods at her and continues to wait. He clasps his hands, unclasps them, adjusts the watch on his wrist and picks lint from his sweater. He's not nervous to be in a muggle building--not really, it's not his first time, though he's not a veteran by any means, and muggles have proven to be quite kind to him and by all accounts normal, though slightly naive. He's nervous because it's the first time he's gone to someone to heal parts of his mind, his spirit, the ache that ebbs and thuds painfully beneath his ribs. He wonders what sort of powerful magic a muggle could possibly have to heal such a despair, and why the wonderful Witches and Wizard at St. Mungo’s have either withheld or-- gone without discovering it for so long. 

“Mr. Wood.” 

Oliver jerks his head up, “Y-yes. Here.” 

A woman stands before him, as though she’s been there for a while. She has sharp eyes, but her smile is soft and there are laugh lines that crinkle her face. She holds her hand out for Oliver to grasp it, and he’s surprised at how strong her grip is and how warm she feels. 

“Dr. Howards, pleased to meet you.” 

“Oliver Wood,” Oliver says, standing. “Oliver is fine.” 

She smiles at him, then steps to the side and beckons him forward. “Okay, Oliver, are you ready to come back with me?” 

Oliver nods and follows her past the reception desk, his palms clamming. He feels slightly ridiculous for being nervous, like he’s kid again, at Hogwarts and following McGonagall to her study for a stern reprimanding. He’s taller than Dr. Howards, but she radiates an aura of control and warmth that he’s never experienced before, a quiet understanding that he knows he could never possess. 

He hesitates when they enter her office. It’s a very casual sort of study, with a loveseat and a very comfortable looking armchair. There are throw pillows, blankets, a bookshelf stuffed full of books. A computer desk is next to a window, with it’s curtains strung back and plants dangling from the ceiling in front of it and perched on the sill. A single candle is lit at an end table next to the arm chair. 

“Wow,” Oliver says, “This doesn’t look like a normal office.” 

Dr. Howards smiles at him, “You’ve probably not been to any sort of therapist before, have you? That’s just fine. Please, have a seat. Would you like tea?” 

Oliver sits gently on the loveseat, and the cushions squish beneath him and he feels like he’s wrapped in a blanket of coziness. He grins, “No thanks.” 

Dr. Howards visits her desk to gather a clipboard and a pen, then stations herself across from Oliver in her armchair. “Would you like the curtains closed?” 

“No, it’s nice open.” He says, “Thanks.” 

Dr. Howards nods, and crosses her legs. “Alright, Oliver. What brings you to me today?” She pulls glasses from her coat pocket and perches them on her nose. 

“Well, uh,” Oliver picks at his trousers, “To be honest, Cho suggested that I come here. She thinks I could use it.” 

There’s a comfortable pause, “And why does she think you could use it?” 

“Not been m’self lately, well, haven’t been m’self for a while. All out of sorts, that kind of thing. I’m not sure how these things are supposed to go--what I’m supposed to do here.” 

“We’re just going to talk and see where it goes,” Dr. Howard says lightly. “There’s no sort of magic to it, no spell.”

Oliver looks at her in suppressed shock, confusion etching his features. 

“Oh,” Dr. Howards says, raising her eyebrows. “Yes, I know you’re a wizard, Oliver. My family, in fact, has witches and wizards in it. Some cousins and aunts, you see. I find that an openness to the world is necessary when you’d like to help those in it. I take lots of clients of all sorts, nothing shocking about a wizard now and then.” 

“Oh,” Oliver says dumbly, then smiles. “That makes a lot of sense. But--no magic? So we just talk?” 

Dr. Howard smiles, “Yes, Oliver. Whatever you’re comfortable with. Tell me a little bit about your relationship with Cho. She’s a bright girl.” 

“She’s brilliant,” Oliver agrees easily, “Cleverest girl I’ve ever met. And she doesn’t give up, either. I wish we were friends--closer friends, at Hogwarts. I really got to know her after, at a pub of all places. We had both been sort of dealing with a lot, I’m sure you know. But I lost someone too--except, he didn’t die, so-- It’s not as bad. But sometimes it feels like he did, or worse, I don’t know. Sometimes I wish it was as simple as that, although Cho would hex me inside out if I said that to her. But at least I could try to move on. That’s bloody selfish, I know.” 

Dr. Howards listens to him with calm intent, then nods at him slowly as he finishes. “I don’t think that’s selfish, Oliver. Many people lose someone they love. Was he a close friend to you?” 

“Not really,” Oliver says honestly, “We weren’t like, mates, but-- its hard to explain.” 

“We have plenty of time for you to try, if you’d like,” Dr. Howards says casually. Oliver nods, though he feels his face warming and he shifts uncomfortably. 

“Alright,” He says, “We were, not so much in a relationship, but we were. But it wasn’t called like, boyfriends, but we sometimes would act it and sometimes we’d act like ferrets in a bag. And then one day he just--he bloody disappears and I don’t hear from him for years. He’s just gone, and I know how hard it is for the bloody bastard to shut up, so I was terrified he had been kil--taken, or something. And then there was news of him and so I knew he was alive, but he didn’t come lookin’ for me and there’s no way I could find him. I tried. And then he sent me a letter a month ago and all the--the--all he said was ‘I’m Back.’ And I’ve been in a right state since then.” 

“Its stupid,” He adds, “Because I should have given up a long time ago, but for some reason I just can’t. Why can’t I just let it go? It’s just--frustrating. It’s really frustrating.” 

Dr. Howards blinks slowly and then clasps her hands together, leaning forward. “Would you like to try something, Oliver?” 

Oliver blinks back at her, owlishly. “What--sure. What sort of thing?” 

“It’s called suggestion. I’m going to help you relax, because I know you’ve built wall upon wall around yourself for protection, and it may be hard to talk about how you feel now. And I’m not going to destroy your walls, Oliver, because that’s not my place or something I’d like to do. But how about I give you a gate that you can open when you feel safe, comfortable?” 

Oliver wonders how Dr. Howards isn’t magical--or maybe she is, secretly. It sounds a lot like a sort of spell, and the fear and nervousness he feels is shadowed by the intrigue and the desire to be better-- something he’s bundled up for so long. He wipes his palms on his trousers and nods, a hesitant thrill climbing his spine. He has no reason not to, not now. He’s made the journey here, and he’s tired. He’s tired of the turmoil constantly gnawing down on him, spreading him thin.

“Sure.” 

“Okay,” Dr. Howards says, “I want you to lean back, close your eyes.” 

Oliver does so, his face warm. 

“I’m going to say ‘in’ and then I’d like you to breathe in, and then I’ll say ‘out’, and you’ll exhale. Do you think you can do that, Oliver?” 

Oliver nods, his voice slightly rasp with nerves. “Sure.” 

“Oliver, you can always stop if you’d like, but I don’t suggest it. I’m going to continue to answer questions, and I’d like you answer them if you can. In.” 

Oliver breathes in slowly, his nostrils flaring. He holds it, feels his heart thudding, and waits. 

“Out.” 

His exhale is long, slow, his muscles in his neck relax and he feels the couch coming up to meet his body as it sinks further into the cushions. 

“In.” Dr. Howard pauses. “Out.” 

She continues directing his breathing for a few moments, her voice a soft, lulling sound. His body slackens, his mind tunnels into the direction she gives, focused only on when to breath, in, and then when to exhale, out. 

“Continue breathing just like that, Oliver, for the rest of the time. I’m no longer going to tell you when unless I need you to change it. How do you feel, Oliver?” 

“Comfortable,” He says quietly, his eyes closed. His nerves have fizzled out to almost nothing, a dull bubbling sensation that doesn’t quite bother him anymore. 

“That’s very good. Lets think about something nice, that makes you happy. What makes you happy?” 

“Flying.” 

“Wonderful, I can see you flying superbly. Think about the broom, I’d like you to picture yourself on a broom right now.” 

Oliver imagines he’s on a broom, his hands twitch as if they too are imagining grabbing it, steering, flying. The air whips against his face, he hears sharp laughter like barks of wind. He can only see the broom. 

“Are you on the broom, Oliver?” 

“Yes.” 

“How does it feel?” 

“Feels brilliant,” Oliver answers honestly. 

“Where are you on your broom, Oliver?” 

“I’m at Hogwarts,” Oliver says, and he is. The pitch is a vibrant, shimmering green that almost blinds him. The stands are tiny, glittering things, he’s soaring to high to see them clearly. He hears the laughter again, his stomach tightens and he wants to chase the sound and laugh with it. 

“Hogwarts was your school, and you must have loved it very much. Let’s think about who is there with you at Hogwarts, while you’re on your broom. No matter what, stay on the broom, Oliver. You’re free there, and happy, and whatever you feel can’t touch you on the broom. Think about holding the broom, how smooth it feels, and know that you’re safe on it.” 

Oliver nods, imagines that he’s untouchable, no matter how fast or how many turns he takes. His grip is true. He can feel the sturdiness of the wood. 

“Who is there, Oliver?” 

“My team,” He says easily. Fred and George are laughing, Ginny, Harry Potter is looking sheepish--they’re all there. He wants to wave to them, but keeps both hands on the broom. 

“How do they make you feel?” Dr. Howards asks, softly. 

“Good. Proud. I’m proud of them, even if I was a little hard on them.” 

“Lovely, Oliver. Keep that feeling. That’s a good feeling to have for your team, you can let that on your broom with you. Imagine having that feeling sit behind you.” 

Oliver tries. He nods. 

“Who else is there?” 

“Marcus Flint,” Oliver says. He’s always there. At every corner of Oliver’s mind, Marcus waits, dark and wonderful. 

“How does he make you feel? Remember that you’re on your broom and that no one can’t touch you on it. Stay focused on the broom.” 

Oliver is silent for a moment, imagining his broom. He imagines Marcus watching him from the pitch, an impish grin on his face. He waves and calls Oliver over. Oliver’s stomach tugs and he wants to go to him.

“A lot of things,” Oliver says, “He makes me happier than anything, but he’s made me sadder than I’ve ever been in my entire life. He hurt me--”

Dr. Howard interrupts softly, “He won’t hurt you here, not while you’re on your broom.” 

“He left, and he didn’t tell me why. I just wanted him to tell me why. Was it me? He made me so happy. I wanted something with him--I didn’t care that he was Slytherin and a bloody bastard sometimes. He was everything.” 

“Oliver,” Dr. Howard says gently, “Focus on your breathing for a moment. I’m going to talk now, and you listen. Breath in and out.” 

“Sometimes, in a war, the injuries and casualties we face aren’t on a battlefield, so it makes them exceedingly difficult to deal with. It’s hard to know what’s real if you can’t put a bandage on it. I know it must have been very hard to love a Slytherin during such a dark time, and I’m sure you were very afraid. But you were very brave, Oliver. Marcus must have been very special.”

“I still love him,” Oliver says, his throat tightening. His voice shakes. 

“That’s very brave,” Dr. Howards says, “To keep loving someone after they’ve hurt you is hard. Focus on your broom. You’re happy on your broom. Focus on the feeling of being brave. Let that come with you. Keep that hurt off your broom. Do you want to keep loving him, Oliver?” 

“Yes,” Oliver nods his head. “I don’t want to stop loving him, ever. I’m terrified I’ll stop loving him, I don’t think I could love anyone like that again.” 

“Focus on that feeling of love, Oliver, and don’t let fear on the broom. You’re on your broom, and nothing can touch you on it. You have pride, you have bravery, and you have love with you. Fear can’t touch you here. The hurt can’t touch you. I’d like you to focus on your broom for a few minutes as I guide you through breathing. Can you do that, Oliver?” 

“Yes.” 

Dr. Howards directs him softly, until Oliver is focused only on her voice and his chest heaves and falls with her words. He imagines he’s still flying, untouchable.

“I’d like you to imagine getting off your broom now, somewhere that you feel safe. Take your time finding that place. You’re done with your broom for now. The next time I tell you to breathe out, I’d like you to open your eyes. You don’t have to sit up, but open your eyes. Now, breathe out, Oliver.” 

Oliver exhales slowly, opening his eyes. His brain feels like it's yawning off sleep, drowsy but aware. He stretches and then sits up, and Dr. Howard smiles at him and takes off her spectacles. She looks softer, somehow, and she’s leaning forward. Oliver smiles sheepishly back at her, scratching the back of his neck. Perhaps he should have asked for tea, his mouth is dry. 

“How do you feel?” She asks earnestly. 

“Good,” Oliver says, “Lil knackered, but I’m glad I could talk about all that-- I can’t believe you didn’t use a spell. That was almost like magic, except-- I could tell I could have left if I wanted but, I’m not sure how to describe it.” He pauses, “I’m glad I came.” 

“I am, too.” Dr. Howards places her clipboard on the ground and scoots to the edge of her seat. 

“I’d like you to come see me again, but that’s up to you. I don’t think you’ll need me forever, but I’d like to help you until then.” 

Oliver nods, “I’d like that too, Dr. Howard.” 

After a few comfortable moments of small-talk, about Oliver’s Quiddich team and his favorite sort of pastries and then Dr. Howard’s favorite teas and plants and books, about weather tomorrow and practice, Dr. Howard stands and shows him back to the waiting room. She holds both of his hands in his and gives him a very stern look, brimming with sincerity, and Oliver can’t help but flush at her. 

“Until next time, Oliver.” She says unblinking. He nods and a grin cracks his face. 

“Until then.” Oliver moves away from her when she lets go, throwing a wave in her direction. He feels lighter, not necessarily better--and certainly not cured--but there is an element of languid hope that wasn’t present before, unhindered by more nefarious feelings. Dr. Howard points at him as he leaves, pursing her lips. 

“You should be proud,” She says after him, “You’re brave. You can love.” 

Oliver’s face darkens but he smiles back at her.

On the street the cold nips at him and he shoves his hands in his pockets. He has a few hours to kill before practice and decides to explore the area, stop in a muggle cafe and try a few things. Have a cuppa. He sets off, not entirely sure what happened but is glad that it did. He’d have to owl Cho and meet with her soon, to thank her and remind her that even though she’s usually right, she’d have to leave the wand at home sometimes. Although he wonders if he would have gone at all if she hadn’t threatened him, a large part of him doubts it.

So, mostly to thank her. 

As he trudges down the block he can’t help a very boyish, giddy feeling that begins to crawl up from his stomach. Dr. Howard’s didn’t tell him to stop loving. She said it made him brave. She didn’t call him wrong, or stupid, or destructive. She sounded proud of him. Oliver wonders if he can feel proud of himself again, too. If he really is brave, or if it’s just foolhardiness that keeps him tumbling onwards.Because at the end of it all, after all the pain and the fear, the anxious welling of loneliness that has lurked in him for so long, he doesn’t want to stop. 

He wants to keep loving. And he wants to love Marcus Flint, too.


End file.
